


If Music Be...

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluffy, Ignores S3, M/M, OT3, Other, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3263387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fake violin.<br/>A concert.<br/>An untimely arrest. </p><p>Sherlock saves the day.<br/>Greg is hot and bothered.<br/>John is not surprised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Music Be...

**Author's Note:**

> I own nobody and nothing. No disrespect is intended, no money is made.

Dimmock had been the one to make the arrest, snicking the cuffs around the middle-aged musician’s wrists and leading him from the green room. 

“How many fake violins did you say he’d sold?” Greg tugged the vest of his waiter’s uniform and shifted from one aching foot to another. 

“Sixteen. All quite real, decent instruments. But none were made by Vuillaume or Stradivari. I suspect that’s not even a Guarneri.” Sherlock nodded toward the case currently resting on a table, guarded by an officer who was arguing with a small dark haired woman.  
“They could have waited! He’d still have been here after the performance. a concert hall full of champagne soaked donors, and _no violinist_.” She glared at the violin case, as if it was somehow to blame for its owner’s secondary line of income. ”This endorsement was going to give us legitimacy. We could have gotten donations for years, on the strength of this one appearance. Now we’ll be the school that was endorsed by a famous counterfeiter.” She sank into a chair and buried her head in her hands. “We’re ruined.”

Sherlock’s baritone broke the awkward silence. “Not necessarily. It was the school testing the donated violin that brought everything to light; a clever PR person should be able to spin that. As to the concert, we do have a violinist; and a genuine antique. Greg, give me your tie. John, I’ll need my violin. It’s under that table, there.” 

John withdrew the non-descript case, a wry smile pulling at his lips. “You brought your Strad. Of course you did.” 

“I thought it might be needed.” He deftly knotted Greg’s bow-tie and adjusted the collar of his plum shirt, ruffling his hair in the mirror beside the door. His lip curled. “Bit underdressed.” 

John handed him the violin. “No problem. They’ll think you’re eccentric.” 

His answering grin was pure mischief, and he twiddled the bow with a flourish. “Three pieces, and then the children are to perform, is that correct? Ms Minton, will you make the announcement?” He opened the door, gave Greg a saucy wink, and strode out, every inch the gallant rescuer. 

Greg looked desperately at John. This would never work; not that Sherlock couldn’t play properly, when he cared to, but the little melodies and improvisations that filled their flat weren’t concert music. “John. What’s he doing? Those people...they’re expecting…” 

John was already heading out the door. “It’ll be fine. Come on. You’re not going to want to miss this.”

They found their way to the back of the hall. Greg barely heard the opening remarks; something about how Mr Sherlock Holmes had graciously agreed to fill in for the missing Edward Sheehan, and would be playing a few selections of his own choosing on his Stradivarius.

And there he was, smiling at the uncertain applause with all the assurance and poise of a professional musician, tucking the instrument beneath his chin, and launched into a sweetly melancholic piece. The music swirled wildly between high and low notes, Sherlock’s long fingers nimbly sliding up and down the neck of his instrument. 

John leaned in, close enough to murmur, “Vitali, Chaconne.” A pause, and then he explained, “That’s the composer, and the name of the piece. He used to play it quite a bit, back when we were still getting sorted.” 

“It sounds like then. Or at least, toward the end of it.” Sherlock’s bow was scrubbing out a furious cluster of notes now.

John grinned. “High, low, fast, slow? Lovely, nervy, moody? Yeah.” 

Greg had been thinking more _longing, wishful, aching_ , but John’s description worked, too. Good memories, now, when the pining was countered by actually having. Judging by the light in Sherlock’s eyes when he saw them lurking in the back, he knew exactly where the music had taken them. When he’d played the final note, swinging his bow wide and dropping into a low bow, Greg let out a long breath. “That was incredible. Why doesn’t he play like that at home?” 

“Well, listen to it. That -” John nodded toward the stage “- sounded pretty close to the surface. Points up the lie, doesn’t it? You hear that, you know he does sentiment.” 

Sherlock waited until the applause died down, then lifted the instrument again. This time, even Greg recognized the tune, though he couldn’t quite put a name to it. Just the mental image of his ex-wife, crying over a skinny girl in a white dress fluttering about on the ice. Something Russian, maybe? 

“The Swan,” John named it for him. “Camille Saint-Saens.” 

“Not Russian, then. Must’ve been the skater.” 

John shot him a confused look, then shrugged and turned back to the consulting virtuoso. Standing on the platform, arms lifted and chin tucked, he looked about nine feet tall. Greg sort of wished he’d turn, show off the lovely little nip and curve of his waist and bum. Or maybe not; catching someone else ogling Sherlock’s lucious arse was always dangerous. The lovelier he looked, the more territorial Greg felt, and Sherlock was particularly incandescent right now. Unlike other musicians Greg had seen, he made no grimaces, did not dance about the stage like a man possessed, although there was the occasional deep sweep of his bow arm for particularly aggressive entrances. But the music pouring through him left its mark in flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes hooded in concentration. Angel, or demon, and did it even matter which? _Mine_. Or, rather, _Ours_ , judging by the slightly feral look John was giving the assembled spectators. 

The song concluded, dying away, and Sherlock bowed once again. There was a bit of rustling in the wings, and a young face peeked out from behind one of the curtains before being whisked away by an adult arm. The children’s choir had arrived, and was preparing for their turn. 

Sherlock looked to Ms Minton, who cocked her head and raised a finger. He nodded, and bowed to the audience once more. “One last piece, and then I believe the children are going to perform.” 

Again, he raised the bow. This time, though, his entire body bent into the stroke. He pulled the bow not with his elbow, or shoulder, or arm. No, this flurry of notes came from hip and spine, fingers and wrist, coaxed from the violin in such tender violence that Greg could only stare, gaping, at the display before him. The violin wept and wailed, sounding of smoke and red wine and deep sultry nights. 

“Oh, GOD.” John, beside him, groaned and wet his lips. “Bastard. He knows. He _knows_ dammit.” 

The music changed, became a frantic swirl of notes, up and down, chasing each other around, roaring through Greg’s veins. He found himself panting, one hand on John’s shoulder for balance. “What does he know?” He rasped out.

“He knows what this piece does to me. God, look at him.” 

Sure enough, Sherlock had thrown aside his passive channeling of the music. He danced with his instrument, fingers flashing and tongue just touching his lower lip. His shoulder dipped, he swayed, pushed and pulled and frantically at the bow, wrestled the notes into barely-tame melodies and tossed them to his audience. 

Then he stood straight, the music lighter now, caressed tenderly from the strings, tripping softly through the room. Easy sounds, soft and piercing sweet, and Sherlock practically standing on tiptoe to capture their airy essence. 

Just as Greg relaxed, the music began gradually accelerating. Then more, and the sounds dropping lower, becoming more frantic, and an explosion of sound burst forth. Sherlock slowed, powered out two finishing strokes, and threw back his head with an ecstatic smile. He dropped a very precise bow to the audience, but his eyes, when he stood back up, tossed a challenge and promise to his lovers.

Yeah, they needed to go home. Now. Greg turned to John, who was shaking his head and wetting his lips. “You get him, I’ll get a cab. And don’t let him forget his violin.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know Oksana Baiul is not Russian.


End file.
